


Childhood Bonds

by LadyLozz97



Series: Tattooed Love [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Childhood, Childhood Friends, First Meetings, Gen, Growing Up Together, Kid Clint Barton, Kid Skye | Daisy Johnson, St. Agnes Orphanage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2019-06-09 15:19:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15270363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLozz97/pseuds/LadyLozz97
Summary: Mary has spent her whole life between St. Agnes Orphanage and increasingly crappy foster homes. At nine years old she doesn’t expect to be adopted, and she doesn’t know what having a family is supposed to feel like. If she’s being honest, she’s more than a little unclear about the notion of friendship too.That all changes one day when a persistent boy with slurred speech and a too big smile, decides they’ll be friends. The rest, as they say, is history.This is a tale of growing up, and getting into a fair bit of mischief along the way.





	1. The Beginning of Something Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint arrives at St. Agnes Orphanage an angry twelve year old boy, struggling to find a place in this new world where he feels forgotten and all alone. Then he meets a quiet nine year old girl, and everything changes.

Clint stepped out of the pasty white minivan with as much of a rebellious stomp as he thought he could get away with. Even so, the nun and the social worker supervising his transfer to St. Agnes Orphanage, narrowed their eyes in his direction and glared at his theatrics in eerie synchronisation.

They wisely chose to say nothing about his behaviour, and for a small fleeting moment, Clint was thankful for it, before remembering with sudden and vicious clarity the reason he was here in the first place.

These people and everyone he had met in the past week were liars. They had told him that his parents didn’t want him anymore, that they had abandoned him before skipping town. Some going as far as saying that Harold and Edith Barton had never loved him to begin with, in order to make him believe the lies that poured from their mouths. But Clint knew the truth. He knew that he was loved, even if his parents sometimes struggled to show him.

Clint remembered how one time, when he was six, his father took him to the circus, and bought him chocolate chip ice-cream to eat while they watched the acrobats swing from the ceiling of the great tent. It was his favourite memory with his father, and Clint had always held a singular affinity for the circus ever since.

It was how Clint knew that these people were lying. A man who does not love his son, doesn’t buy him ice-cream and take him to fun things like the circus, Clint’s twelve year old mind reasoned.

There was simply no way that his mother and father had left him behind. They _couldn’t._ They _wouldn’t_ … _Would they?_

A brief flash of memory clouded Clint’s vision, angry fists raining down on his small body, and agonising pain flaring where bones broke beneath his skin.

Clint shook his head firmly, dislodging the thoughts of an event long since passed. Clint knew that his father hadn’t meant to hurt him. His mother had told him so the next day when she tended to him, wrapping his busted ribs in cool linen.

Clint’s thoughts were abruptly brought back to the present when the nun smacked him across the back of his head.

“I am talking to you boy. Don’t stand there ignoring me.” The woman wrapped in uncomfortable-looking robes of black and white seethed, before grabbing Clint’s arm and frog-marching him to the entrance of the orphanage.

Clint winced where the nun’s bony fingers bit into his skin, instinctually knowing that her iron grip would leave purple bruising in their wake. He willed his legs to keep up with her quick pace and bit back his burning need to remind the woman that he didn’t respond to her because he couldn’t hear her.

Clint only had a moment to take in the sight of his new home, before they were inside. From what he could see, the building was plain and rectangular, and connected to a grand chapel similar in size. The lawn was a dull green, turning brown along the edges of the lot from a lack of watering, and there were toys scattered haphazardly within the confines of a steely grey fence.

The sign that said _‘St. Agnes Orphanage’_ creaked in the breeze, and the white paint chipped and crumbled from weather exposure. The small voice in Clint’s head that had been so vocal up until this point, recoiled from the term _orphanage,_ and desperately insisted that Clint had parents and did not belong here.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Clint spied a flicker of movement in a dirty second floor window. A bob of unevenly cut brown hair, and big dark eyes stared back at him.

 

* * *

 

Mary-Sue watched the new boy arrive with the same level of disinterest that seemed to colour her entire life. He had shaggy black hair and blue eyes that Mary thought might have been pretty had they not belonged to a boy. His clothes were torn and dirty, and he looked too thin to be healthy.

Unfortunately none of these observations fazed Mary in the slightest, as they seemed to be an all-too-common trait shared by children first arriving at St. Agnes’.

Malnourished, dirty, and pathetic creatures; the unwanted children of New York City.

Mary continued to watch the boy until he disappeared inside the front of the building, and then returned her attention back to her current situation. She was balanced precariously on the top shelf in the cleaning supply closet, tucked safely out of sight from anyone who might enter the room. Mary was squeezed between a massive bottle of bleach and the grimy web-crusted window, which also happened to be the only source of light in the tiny closet.

Mary-Sue had found the hiding nook last month when the Orphanage bully had turned his sights on Mary. Jackson was thirteen, and four years older than her. He was ugly and overweight, and his hair was a shocking shade of auburn. His face covered in an inflamed layer of red pimples. Mary always thought that Jackson would make a better target for bullying than anything else, but apparently his sheer size and unfortunate knowledge about insults and swear words, made most of the children at St. Agnes intimidated by him.

Mary knew why he had turned his sights onto her. It was because of her soul mark. His motivations for tormenting her came down to two simple - and what should have been inconsequential - facts. Mary had one, and Jackson did not.

She understood the jealousy, truly she did. Jackson had started out life with no parents, and he was intended to journey throughout the rest of it without a pre-destined person to share it with. Seemingly abandoned by the universe twice over. And it would have been sad, if only he hadn’t chosen to latch onto Mary and blame her for fates unkindness.

Today’s torment had consisted of Jackson and his cronies cornering her and attempting to tear off her shirt, saying they only wanted to see her soul mark. But everything about the situation had raised the hairs on the back of Mary’s neck. From the way Jackson had leered at her under-developed chest for too long, to the way his upper lip beaded with anticipatory sweat as he dared Mary to submit to him.

The tips of her soul mark buzzed with dangerous energy the way it always did whenever she was threatened, warning her to keep her distance.

So she had kicked Jackson in the shins with all her might, and used his yelp of pain as a distraction to jump over the metre and a half high fence and make a run for it. The feat in itself was easy enough. Mary had always been quick and agile, more so than the other children at least.

She had then doubled back once she was sure she had lost them and made her way down the restricted access corridor, picked the lock to the supply closet and clamoured up into her hiding spot. Relishing the safety and security the cramped space had provided. More reassuring than any person she had ever met in her nine years of existence. Not the other children, or the nuns, or foster parents. People had always let her down.

Mary sat on her shelf for another hour before night began to fall, and the natural light began to falter within the closet. Mary finally relinquished her secret sanctuary when her fear of the dark overcame her desire for solitude.

Locking the door again behind her, Mary stealthily made her way back through the restricted corridors, careful to keep a wary ear trained for any approaching footsteps. It would be incredibly bad if Mary was caught back here, and she didn’t feel like having _another_ behavioural note added to her already too-thick file.

Mary made it safely back to the room she shared with five other girls, and ducked inside just in time to be roused for dinner by Sister Theresa.

 

* * *

 

Clint was at the Orphanage for a whole three days before any of the other children talked to him, and he was sure that it was the loneliest seventy-two hours of his life.

The three boys he shared a room with, religiously ignored him. Never daring to even make eye-contact. If Clint didn’t know any better, he might have thought that he had a contagious disease of some sort, with the way these boys avoided him. But alas, it was becoming increasingly obvious that they were simply excluding him. Clint would never admit it to anyone, but the isolation had yet to fail in making his pillow wet with silent tears every night.

But thankfully, this would soon change.

It happened in the cafeteria line at dinner. A large boy with shocking red hair barged into his shoulder, snickering cruelly as the contents of his tray clattered onto the polished linoleum floor.

Clint had felt his recently volatile temper flare up, and anger bubble beneath his skin the same way it had ever since he was dropped off at this hellhole.

Clint had whipped around, fully prepared to give whoever had knocked him a verbal thrashing, when a wisp of a girl, who looked no older than eight grabbed that same shoulder and pulled him back with far more strength than a child her size should possess.

Willing to give her the same verbal thrashing he had prepared for the kid who had spilt his supper, Clint abruptly turned to see her face. Only to stop short when bright baby blues, met dark soulful brown eyes. The girl held his gaze for a moment longer, whilst also subtly shaking her head to discourage any further misbehaviour from him. Her look seeming to say, _it’s not worth it._

More surprising, was that Clint listened to her. The tension drained from his shoulders and he relaxed slightly, and then the moment was over. The girl retracted her hand, and walked past him, keeping the line moving.

Clint was a little taken aback by the whole encounter. Not a word was spoken, and yet Clint had felt like for a small, fleeting moment, that someone in this god-forsaken place cared about him.

So Clint quickly cleaned his mess under the nuns’ hawkish eyes, lined up again for food, and then searched the dining hall for any sign of the young girl.

Clint wandered around for a few minutes until he found her, sitting at the back of the room at a table by herself. Her big chocolate brown eyes hidden behind a sheath of an unevenly cut fringe, warily scanning the room as she hunched over her meal. Somehow making herself look even smaller than before, and significantly less noticeable in the sea of parentless children.

Clint sat down in front of her with all the grace of a newborn foal, and grinned at the girl whose name he didn’t know. Her eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed as she frantically darted her gaze around the room.

“You can’t sit here.” The girl hissed through clenched teeth.

Clint blinked owlishly, his surprise and confusion evident in the gaping of his mouth and furrow of his dark brow. “B-but why?” He stammered, his broken and slurred English making an unwanted appearance.

“Because you just can’t.” The little girl thankfully ignored his speech difficulties but nevertheless, her tone was resolute, like that was all the explanation Clint should need, but Clint couldn’t hear it, so he questioned her further.

“That’s not a reason,” he smirked. “Not a good one at least.” Clint shrugged and scooped a fork full of pasta into his mouth and chewing on the tomatoe-ey goodness contently. Pleased that tonight at least, the food tasted a little like what his Ma once made him. Pleasantly reminding him of home.

The girl didn’t say another word, simply grabbed her tray and slid further down the iron table away from him.

Clint was suddenly uncertain of himself. He didn’t know if she had recoiled because she didn’t like him, or perhaps she just didn’t like people in general. A darker, angrier part of his mind wondered if she didn’t want to be around him because he was deaf and didn’t fit in.

He was uncomfortable, unsure whether he should move to follow her, or find somewhere else to sit. Instead, Clint stayed put for a moment, and simply observed his unwilling dining companion.

The girl looked like she might have some Asian heritage in her blood, but who would know for sure in a place like this. She wore ill-fitting clothes that positively swam on her slight frame. And her eyes never rested on any one place for more than a moment. Constantly wary of the world around her and astutely on guard, like she expected the worst of people.

Making Clint wonder how long she had been in this place and others just like it. It also made him wonder how long it would take for him to look at the world like it was going to strip away anything he valued.

Clint sighed, picked up his tray and slid in the seat in front of the girl once more. Despite the look of annoyance that passed over her expression, Clint did not let her sour mood deter him. There was something about the girl that made him feel… _Connected_. It was strange. And he wanted to help her the way that she had helped him.

“My name is Clint Barton by the way. It’s short for Clinton, but my ma only ever called me that when I was in trouble.” Clint offered another smaller smile, hoping that the younger child would accept his olive branch. “What’s yours?”

The girl stared at him unblinking for longer than she probably needed to, and it honestly made Clint squirm in his seat after a while. The colour rose in his cheeks, and his outstretched hand wavered, the smile slipping off of his face as embarrassment set in.

Clint ran the same hand he had offered to the nameless girl, through his inky black hair, and sunk down into his seat, unconsciously emulating the girl’s posture.

“Look, I just wanted to say thanks for helping me before. You didn’t have to be nice to me, but you were anyway. And I’m grateful.” Clint smiled shyly, the expression not quite reaching his eyes as he prepared to grab his tray and leave the girl to her obviously desired solitude. Clint stopped when he saw the girl’s mouth move, and turned his attention towards reading her lips.

“I don’t know my real name, but the nuns call me Mary-Sue. You can call me Mary… If you want.” The girl called Mary called out softly.

Clint resettled his tray, and his smile returned. “It’s nice to meet you Mary.”

The girl tucked a stray piece of chestnut hair behind her ear self-consciously, before returning to her constant vigil of the dining hall. “I meant what I said earlier.” Mary begins uncertainly, like she isn’t sure if she should be telling Clint any of this. “If you sit with me, then Jackson is going to pick on you too.” She warns with grave resignation.

Clint decided that he didn’t like that emotion playing along the edges of her face, it was far too serious and heavy. It made Mary look too old, like a grownup.

“I’m not scared of bullies.” Clint says simply.

Mary blinked at him in response, seeming to be a little surprised, and wholly skeptical.

“Would you like to be my friend Mary?” Clint asks a moment later.

And then Mary smiles, it’s small and uncertain as it stretches around gapped teeth. And Clint decides then and there, that he would try to make sure that she had more reasons to smile in the future.


	2. School is in Session

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary works hard to achieve well at school, hoping that the extra effort will endear potential parents enough to overlook her behavioural issues and adopt her. Clint comes to some hard realisations on his first day of public school, and has difficulty keeping his cool when things don’t go his way.

With the next week comes a new assortment of conundrums, and Mary tries hard to forget about the strange boy who had spent every meal with her since they met.

_Clint, his name is Clint,_ she reminds herself.

Despite the fact that he’s the closest she’s had to a friend in a long time, she tries hard to put _Clint_ far from her mind. Friendships never lasted long at St. Agnes’, so instead she attempted to focus on school.

The nuns were always saying that the young kids were chosen first. Everyone wanted a baby, or a toddler, and if they couldn’t get that, then they would want the cute and well-behaved children.

Everyone knew that no one wanted one of the older kids, and no one wanted a naughty child. Mary figured she was screwed on the naughty front, and she was getting too old to be considered a little kid anymore. But she thought that if she could prove to the parents that she was smarter than the other kids, then maybe they would take her even if she was inclined to misbehave.

It helped that Mary liked learning, even if she wasn’t very good at it. Mary would spend all lesson at the front of the class, paying close attention to every word the teacher said. Dutifully copying what she wrote on the blackboard into her book in messy handwriting. But it made no difference, nothing made sense.

Today was no different as Mrs Brosnan waddled around the room handing out the results to last Friday’s pop quiz. Mary Sue watched as the plump woman struggled to squeeze between the desks without bumping the students. Her wide hips brushed against Mary’s desk ominously as she slapped the plain white paper with a pathetic 2/10 scrawled across the bottom, against her desk.

Frustration brewed in Mary’s chest as the 2/10 taunted her. The parents would never take her if she was naughty _and_ dumb.

The girl next to her, Anabel Wright peered over at Mary’s desk. “Maybe you’re too stupid for 4th grade.” She suggests smugly. Cradling her own paper in her dainty hands and admiring the 10/10 sitting proudly at the bottom.

Mary feels tears prick her eyes. “Shut up Anabel.” She hisses.

Anabel has the gall to look offended for a split second. “Make me, _orphan girl_.” She challenges venomously.

Something in Mary’s chest feels like it snaps. “Shut up Anabel! You fat, ugly cow!” Every head in the room turns to look at Mary, including Mrs Brosnan. Who takes one look at the pretty tears running down Anabel’s innocent round face and immediately turns her disappointed stare towards Mary. Her lips thinning into a straight line.

“Mary-Sue Poots.” She pronounces every syllable in her name sharply, and Mary flinches. “Principal’s Office. Now.” She points to the door sternly, and Mary hangs her head as she walks out of the classroom, humiliated.

Mary doesn’t let her angry tears fall. Not on the long walk to the Principal’s Office, and not while she waits in the hall outside for her turn. She crosses her arms tightly against her chest and thinks about her hiding spot at the orphanage. In the supply closet squished in between the bottle of bleach and the crusty window. Pretending that she’s there, safe and alone.

By the time Mary is feeling a little better, her name is called and it’s her turn. She reluctantly stands up, and shuffles into the large room, sitting in the big blue chair with the cracked cushion and stuffing spewing out.

Hesitantly she lifts her head to meet Principal Flemming’s kind gaze. “Good morning Mary-Sue.”

“Just Mary,” she corrects automatically. Flushing when Principal Flemming’s smile widens a fraction.

“Mary,” he tries again, meeting her eyes steadily, “your teacher Mrs Brosnan informs me that you said some rather unkind things to one of your classmates.” He clasps his hands on the desk in front of him patiently.

Mary wets her lips and struggles to maintain eye-contact. “Anabel,” she admits with a defeated nod.

“Why did you say those things Mary?” He asks softly.

Mary shrugs. There was never any point trying to justify her actions, no one ever believed her anyway.

“Mary I know you won’t be with us very long, but I would like for your time here to be as pleasant as possible. So if there was a reason you said the things you did, then I would like it if you told me.”

Mary chewed her lip as she weighed her options. Don’t tell, and Principal Flemming will have to tell the nuns what she did, and they will add another behavioural note to her file. Or tell the truth, and maybe get out of trouble… No one had ever taken her side before, but maybe this time would be different. “She teased me for getting a bad grade on my pop quiz.”

“I see.” Principal Flemming leans back into his office chair. “Mary you know that the school has a zero-bullying policy. So that means that while I will be having Anabel called up here to speak with me, it also means that you will have afterschool detention today-“

“Will you tell the nuns?” Mary interrupts.

Principal Flemming looks apologetic, and Mary’s stomach drops before he says anything. “I’m afraid that it is school policy.”

Mary’s eyes burn with tears and she feels like there is a frog in her throat. When the nuns found out about this, they were going to put another note in her file. Reducing any chances she might have for an adoption or even a half-way decent placement. She can’t hold them back this time when the tears fall.

Principal Flemming looks like he wants to comfort her, his eyes awash in pity. Mary hates that look worst of all and feels anger burn in her belly for not keeping her feelings to herself.

“I’m sorry Mary I wish I could do more.” He pushes a box of tissues towards her.

Mary ignores the gesture and stubbornly wipes her wet face on her ratty sleeve. “Can I go?”

Principal Flemming dismisses her after making sure Mary knew where to go for after-school detention. It takes everything inside of Mary not to bolt out of the office.

She should have known better than to trust an adult to be helpful.

_At least Anabel would be getting in trouble too_ , Mary reminds herself. She feels a little better at the thought.

 

* * *

 

Clint sat in an empty classroom adjoining the guidance counsellor’s office by himself, as he had done ever since his first day of school a week ago.

He clutched his lead pencil tightly in his grip and tried to focus on the equation in front of him.

_Three times nine equals what?_

Clint patiently drew three groups of nine lines on his working paper, and dutifully began counting them under his breath. Concentrating hard he eventually wrote a shaky 27 next to the equation. Releasing a heavy sigh when he realised he had come to the end of the paper.

With a cautiously pleased grin he took his work into the adjoining office where the Guidance Counsellor Miss Goodman sat going through her own paperwork.

She looked up through thick rimmed glasses as Clint knocked respectfully on her door, and returned Clint’s grin when she saw the completed test grasped in his hands. “You finished?”

“Yes ma’am,” Clint responds proudly, relinquishing the test paper when Miss Goodman held out a hand expectantly.

“Good, I’ll mark it now.” The young woman immediately uncapped a red biro and started checking his answers, as she had been doing all week.

His first day of school had started the same way the movies always showed. He was put into a classroom with kids his own age, with a teacher who looked slightly bored with their job, and then asked to tell everyone his name at the front of the class.

But that was where the similarities ended. The moment Clint had introduced himself he could see students sniggering behind their hands, shamelessly mocking his slurred speech.

If that hadn’t been humiliating enough, the teacher had then singled Clint out when he had struggled to understand what he called a _basic algebra equation_. In Clint’s opinion, there had been nothing simple about the mess of jumbled numbers and letters. His Ma had never mentioned that words and numbers could be used together when she had home schooled him.

By lunchtime the teacher had escorted Clint to the principal’s office. Clint had been confused and scared. He didn’t understand what he had done wrong. He had tried to do as the teacher said, but none of his answers had been right.

By the end of an embarrassing conversation with the Principal and his teacher, it was decided that they were going to spend the next few days testing him to see where his current schooling was up to date. Then they would adjust his classes and workload accordingly.

Clint’s heart had sunk. They thought he was too dumb for grade 7 work.

The teacher had tried comforting him, saying that it wasn’t his fault. That he had fallen behind because his ma hadn’t taught him the right way. Clint had bristled under the assumption that his ma had done anything wrong. He had contemplated throwing the stupid, broken blue chair he had been told to sit in, out the window as his anger had settled heavy in his chest. But he hadn’t.

Instead he had obediently followed the Principal as he was led to Miss Goodman’s office, and she had begun the tedious task of testing Clint’s knowledge and understanding of different subjects.

Clint returned his attention to Miss Goodman as she finished grading his test. “Congratulations Clint,” she beamed proudly. “You scored 18/20 on your test.”

Clint’s face split into a wide, elated grin. “Really?” Disbelief swirled in his belly.

“Really,” Miss Goodman confirmed patiently.

“Does this mean I can go back to normal classes now?” Clint asks hopefully.

Miss Goodman’s smile turns a little more mechanical as she says, “the Principal will be the one who decides what happens now.”

Clint feels unease unfurl in his belly. “Can we go see him?”

Miss Goodman doesn’t look surprised by the question, more than used to Clint’s slightly impatient and somewhat abrasive social skills by this point. “Of course.”

Clint waits by the door as Miss Goodman packs up her work. His body jittery with nervousness. Miss Goodman had said he did well on his test. Surely the Principal would let him back into class now.

He set a brisk pace to the Principal’s office, Miss Goodman’s shorter legs struggling to keep up. After a few minutes of waiting the Principal ushers them inside and suggests they take a seat.

“Miss Goodman,” he nods politely in welcome to the woman. “Clinton it’s good to see you again.” The principal smiles kindly, “how are your tests going?”

Clint butts in before Miss Goodman can formulate a response. “Really well,” Clint declares enthusiastically. “Miss Goodman said I got an 18/20 on my test today, which is so much higher than any of my other scores. So can I go back to my classes now?”

The Principal smiles warmly at Clint, before turning to Miss Goodman for her opinion. “What do you think Miss Goodman?”

She smiles affectionately at Clint. “Clint has been very determined to do well in his tests, and he is very eager to get back into a routine and learn with his peers, as you can see for yourself,” she gestures to Clint’s nervous fidgeting.

The Principal nods along almost absentmindedly as Miss Goodman hands over a stack of his tests and he combs through them.

“I think that with some assistance and a specialised learning program put in place, I think it is possible that he might catch up to the rest of his peers within the next two years.”

Clint’s nervous fidgeting abruptly stops as he focuses intently on Miss Goodman’s moving lips. Surely he had read them wrong.

“At the moment his English literacy skills are at 5th grade level. His numeracy comprehension is at a 4th grade standard…”

Miss Goodman continues to speak, evaluating Clint’s current skills and ability to learn, but Clint tunes them out as the disappointment and embarrassment settles over him.

He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there blankly staring at his feet when Miss Goodman gently touches his shoulder to get his attention once again. Clint flinches under the unexpected contact and abruptly looks up, shrinking away from Miss Goodman’s touch.

The Principal is speaking again, so Clint focuses on his lips and reads the words that he’s saying. “We will start you out in 5th grade, but you will go to 4th grade classes for mathematics lessons. We will also see about getting you an ASL tutor for afterschool study sessions, and of course we will talk to your social worker about the academic changes we plan to implement into your schooling so that they can inform any foster families and new schools of the plan we have established for you.”

Clint nods along blankly to whatever the Principal’s says and tries not to think about the fact that he will be sharing classes with children much younger than himself. Already stressed about how the other children will treat him. It was bad enough being deaf, but now he would be the oldest in the class as well as hearing impaired. Everyone was going to tease him, he just knew it.

When Clint and Miss Goodman leave the principal’s office, she turns to Clint and leans down to meet his eyes. The young woman looks concerned, her kind blue eyes studying Clint’s withdrawn behaviour. “I know that this is scary Clint but you will be okay. You’re a smart boy, and before you know it you’ll be back to being in 7th grade classes.” She reassures firmly.

Clint nods minutely.

“You just have to be strong, and you’ll make it through. I promise.”

Clint studies Miss Goodman’s face intently, looking for the lie. “You promise?” He asks in an uncertain voice.

Miss Goodman nods decisively, and when she says, “I promise.” Clint finds himself reluctantly believing her despite his overwhelming disappointment.

Miss Goodman smiles at him and rests her hand gently on Clint’s shoulder. And this time he doesn’t flinch.

 

* * *

 

Mary stares curiously up at Clint as they eat dinner together that night. The older boy hadn’t said a single word since he had sat down. Staring morosely into his steamed vegetables and grilled chicken. Obviously something was wrong. _Maybe he got detention too_ , she wonders silently. Mary decides that a good friend would try to figure out what was the matter.

Mary snaps her fingers under his nose to get his attention, and then asks, “what’s wrong with you?” She raises her eyebrows expectantly.

Clint frowns, and stares down into his food again as he replies with a gruff, “nothing.” Effectively ignoring Mary once again.

Mary scowls in response. She never did like being ignored. Snapping her fingers in front of his face to regain his attention, “it’s not nothing. Your face is doing this droopy thing.” She points out diplomatically as she spears a steamed potato with her fork and nibbles on it.

Clint looks slightly offended, but Mary can’t quite figure out if it’s ‘cause of what she said or if it’s ‘cause she won’t leave the subject alone.

“It’s none of your business Mary,” Clint insists hotly.

Mary doesn’t know how to explain to Clint that she cares if he’s happy or not and only wants to help. So as much as she hates it, she adopts one of the expressions she sees the nuns use all the time to try and get him to tell her. She levels a disappointed look in Clint’s direction. “Friends aren’t supposed to keep secrets or fib to one another.” She crosses her arms over her chest haughtily and stares the boy down.

Clint scoffs impatiently. “And how would you know that _Mary-Sue_? You don’t have any friends.” He sneers.

Mary swallows thickly and levels Clint with her best impression of someone whose feelings weren’t wounded. “You’re right. I don’t have friends, and now neither do you.” For a brief vindictive moment, Mary hopes that her words hurt Clint as much as they had hurt her. She picks her jumper up off the bench and walks away, leaving her dinner mostly untouched and a red-faced Clint to sit by himself.

Mary replays the conversation in her head, trying to figure out what she did wrong to make Clint say such nasty things.

Sister Theresa stops Mary as she attempts to leave the dining hall. “Mary-Sue, dinner is not over yet child. You must stay seated until everyone is finished.”

Mary looks up at the nun exasperated. “I don’t feel good.” She explains. Technically it wasn’t a lie, she didn’t feel good. Her eyes were stinging and there was this yucky, heavy feeling in her chest.

Sister Theresa looks sceptical, but allows it reluctantly. “Very well, but you will go straight back to your room.” She sternly insists.

Mary nods half-heartedly, refusing to make eye-contact.

Sister Theresa leans down and grasps Mary’s chin between her fingers, drawing Mary’s face upwards and forcing the young girl to meet her eyes. “I mean it Mary-Sue. I will be by shortly to make sure you are in your room.” Her no-nonsense tone allowing no room for even the weakest of arguments.

Mary clenches her jaw, “yes Sister Theresa.”

The nun eyes Mary for a moment more, before releasing her chin and allowing Mary on her way. Mary doesn’t care that Sister Theresa probably didn’t believe her. It wasn’t like _another_ behavioural note in her file was going to make much difference at this point.

Mary doesn’t let the tears fall until she’s safely tucked away between the bottle of bleach and the web-encrusted window of her hiding spot, uncaring of Sister Theresa’s promise to check on her after dinner. Mary stays hidden well past dark despite her fear, eventually slinking back to her room when she was all cried out.

Mary doesn’t sit with Clint for breakfast the next morning, choosing instead to grab a banana from the dining hall – careful to avoid Sister Theresa in the process. And eat it under the gnarled oak tree in the Orphanage backyard before the school bus arrived. Pigheadedly ignoring the mocking monkey noises one of Jackson’s friends make as he passes by her.

When the bus finally pulls up along the curb, Mary stubbornly ignores Clint’s pleading eyes as he moves his schoolbag off the seat when Mary walks down the aisle of the bus. She makes a point of sitting as far away from him as possible. In the corner of her eyes, Mary sees Clint deflate as she sits at the back of the bus by herself. She tries to ignore the yucky feeling in her chest again.

When they arrive at the school half an hour later, Mary allows herself to relax a little as she walks towards her class. Feeling secure in the fact that she probably won’t see Clint again until the end of the day when they catch the bus with all the other orphanage kids.

It comes as a surprise when she walks into the classroom after putting her bag away, to find Clint sitting at the back of her class looking sullen. Mary not-so-subtly backs up to double-check the room number worried that she had somehow stumbled into the wrong class. Reading 4C on the door, _her door_ , she cautiously enters the room with the other children.

Mary stares at Clint, utterly confused. Deciding that her curiosity was more important than her hurt feelings she approaches Clint’s desk.

Mary snaps her fingers under his nose again, breaking Clint’s glaring contest with the top of his desk. Clint’s eyes dart up immediately, his face contorted aggressively until he realises who is standing in front of him. His expression quickly morphing into surprise, followed quickly by sheepish embarrassment moments later.

“What are you doing here?” Clint asks dumbly, his hand reaching back to self-consciously scratch at the back of his flaming red neck.

Mary rolls her eyes, “this is my classroom.” The silent _duh_ , at the end of her statement goes unsaid. “What are you doing here?” She asks warily.

Clint’s eyes dart around nervously before replying. “The principal put me here ‘cause my math isn’t so good.” If possible, Clint’s cheeks heat even further, making Mary frown.

“That’s okay, I’m not very good at math either.” She gives Clint an unsure smile when she catches him peeking up at her apprehensively. “You don’t need to be embarrassed.”

All the tension seems to melt out of Clint’s shoulders, and he smiles genuinely. “Thankyou Mary.”

Mary nods and turns to go back to her seat, she stops abruptly when Clint grabs her hand to spin her around. Mary turns to meet Clint’s eyes, snatching her arm out of his grip sub-consciously.

“I’m sorry about what I said yesterday. I didn’t mean it.”

Clint sounds sincere, so Mary decides to forgive him. She never likes apologising, so she knows it’s a big deal when someone else does it.

“Okay. I accept your apology.” She nods resolutely, “but next time you want to be a jerk, pick on someone else, cause I don’t want friends that are gunna be mean to me when they’ve had a bad day.” She raises an eyebrow to drive her point home.

Clint nods emphatically. “I won’t do it again,” he promises. “Cross my heart.” His fingers dragging over his chest in a hurried ‘X’.

Mary snorts wryly, “kay.”

“Friends again?” Clint asks hopefully, holding his hand out for a handshake.

Mary giggles. “Friends,” she agrees, shaking his hand in return. “You’re such a dork,” she teases.

Clint’s grin widens, “I know. But shhh, it’s a secret.” He whispers conspiratorially.

“Mary-Sue! Bottoms in seats please, our lesson is about to start.” Mrs Brosnan announces impatiently from the front of the class, displeased hands resting on wide hips.

“Sorry Mrs Brosnan,” Mary apologises as she darts back to her seat, ignoring Clint’s teasing snigger.

As Mary gets her book out, she can’t help but think that class will definitely be more fun with a friend to keep her company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!
> 
> Thanks for taking the time to check out my fic! I hope you're enjoying Childhood bonds so far, I know I am having fun writing it. If anyone has suggestions for interactions between Clint and Mary that they want to see, let me know in the comments and I will see about maybe adding them.
> 
> Please leave some feedback, I love hearing from readers!


	3. You've got to pinky swear it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary takes a gamble and decides to trust Clint with a secret, a gamble that pays off as their friendship begins to solidify and become something lasting.

Not long after arriving at St. Agnes, Clint decides that his favourite part of school is lunchtime. Mostly because he can eat, but he’s a growing boy, and no one could possibly expect anything less of him.

Aside from the food, Clint soon discovers that the second best part of lunchtime, is the fact that most of the kids eat in the cafeteria. Leaving the oval virtually deserted.

Obviously, Clint was unaware of this glorious tid-bit until an eager and energetic Mary grabbed him by the hand and dragged him through the crowded halls and pathways.

For someone so small, Clint never expected Mary to be so forceful. She pushed past people twice her size and shoulder-checked anyone who got in her path, seemingly immune to the dirty looks thrown her way - and his by association - in the process.

When they finally arrived at a soft grassy patch in the corner of the oval with a small tree providing shade, Mary proudly exclaimed, “Welcome to my spot!”

And to no one’s surprise, _Mary’s_ spot quickly became _Clint and Mary’s_ spot.

Clint arrived at _their_ spot, to find Mary already sitting there waiting for him. She munched obnoxiously on an apple and combed through the pages of what looked like homework with an intense look of concentration on her face.

“You do realise that homework is meant to be done at home, right?” Clint flops down next to her on the cool grass and smirks.

Mary snorts but doesn’t respond, flipping through the pages a little more aggressively. Clint peers over her shoulder to take a closer look at the book.

 _‘A Study into the Phenomenon of Soul mates and Soul marks.’_ Read the title.

“Some light reading?” Clint watches as Mary levels Clint with an unimpressed frown and scratches lightly at the back of her neck.

Mary goes very still for a second, and then she stares at Clint with a weird intensity. “Do you have a soul mark?” She keeps staring, and Clint feels a bit like a bug under a microscope.

“Yeaaah…” Clint draws the word out uncertainly, before lifting up the hem of his jeans to shown Mary the mark on his leg. The words, ‘ _you’re no Katniss Everdeen, but I guess you’ll do,_ ’ wrapped daintily around his ankle in feminine cursive.

Mary snorts. “What does that even mean?”

“I literally have no idea.” He deadpans before chuckling.

Mary’s expression turns serious very quickly again. “Do you ever… Feel stuff on your soul mark?” Her voice is small, scared even.

“What do you mean?” Clint asks with a furrowed brow, trying to understand.

“Like, do you ever get tingly sensations on your soul mark, or burning feelings sometimes?” Mary clarifies with emphatic and somewhat frustrated hand gestures.

Clint’s brow furrows further, as he shakes his head no.

Mary’s body shudders on a breath, and her eyes go a little unfocused as her hand grasps desperately at the back of her shirt, irritated fingers grappling with something at the base of her neck.

“If I tell you a secret will you promise not to tell anyone?”

Clint is tempted to make a joke about the fact that he would need to have someone aside from Mary to talk to in the first place in order for him to be able to divulge her secret. But one look at the oddly serious expression on the younger girls face was enough to make him refrain from commenting. Instead Clint nods gravely.

“You’ve got to pinky swear it.” Mary declares resolutely.

Clint thinks she’s joking for all of two seconds, until he realises her face is stern and utterly unyielding. Reluctantly Clint holds his pinky finger out, feeling like an eight year old and hoping no one saw, but nevertheless seals their pact.

Apparently satisfied, Mary sighs and stares searchingly at Clint for a moment, before abruptly turning around and haltingly lifting the back of her shirt enough for him to see the expanse of black ink that stretched up her spine and disappeared beneath the hem of her shirt.

Clint stares transfixed. He had never seen a soul mark so big, or strange, or as beautiful as Mary’s. Weirdly enough Clint found that more than anything else he wanted to touch it, and understand the strange symbols etched into his friend’s skin.

Clint can practically feel the tension vibrating off of Mary’s body as she anxiously awaits his reaction to her _unique_ soul mark. And being the wordsmith he was Clint opened his mouth and the word “wow” slipped out in place of _literally_ anything else.

Mary’s head whipped around and she silently glares at him. “Seriously?”

Clint shrugs unapologetically. “What? It’s a cool soul mark. I thought _wow_ was appropriate.” He grins.

The glare directed his way lessens, and Mary’s expression turns into something more akin to doubtful.

“Is it weird that I want to touch it?” Clint asks after a moment. When Mary gives him a peculiar look, Clint flushes and clarifies, “not in a creepy way or anything. ‘Cause my ma always told me that it was rude to stare at someone’s soul mark and that you should never touch someone’s mark without permission first because people can get really uncomfortable. And –“

Mercifully, Mary interrupts Clint’s rambling with a firm, “Clint.”

Clint blinks once, and then twice. “Yeah?”

“Shut up.” Mary grins.

Clint exhales loudly. “Yeah okay.”

“I don’t think it’s weird that you want to touch it. But I don’t usually like people touching my mark.” Mary admits shyly.

Clint nods, trying to understand. “Why?”

“It’s going to sound really weird but… I don’t think my soul mark likes it. It gets itchy and uncomfortable most of the time when someone other than me touches it.” At Clint’s confounded look, Mary continues. “Sometimes it gets all tingly all on its own too, and I get these feelings in my chest, like my soul mark is telling me things.”

“What kind of things?” Clint leans forward, his interest peaking.

Mary gives Clint another measured look, and then speaks again. “Sometimes it tells me when someone is going to be really important to me, and I get this weird, warm and glowing feeling.”

Clint perks up at that, “when did you get that one?” Suddenly Mary’s answer mattered more than nearly anything else did, and Clint wasn’t entirely sure why.

Looking a little bashful, Mary admits, “I’ve felt the warm feeling three times.” She proudly demonstrates the number with a trio of digits. “The first two were with the Brody’s when I was six. They were a foster family that I thought were going to adopt me…” Mary goes quiet, too quiet. “But they decided they didn’t want me.”

Clint feels sad for Mary, and angry at the Brody’s for not wanting someone as special as his friend.

Her smile is a little forced, but Mary moves on rather quickly. “And the third time was when I met you.”

“Really?” Clint wants so badly for it to be true. He wants so badly to matter to someone again.

“Of course,” Mary reassures him without even a moment’s hesitation.

Clint feels his eyes get warm, and suddenly he needs something else to focus on. He refused to cry in front of anyone, even if he really wanted to. “So do you get any other feelings from your soul mark?”

Mary’s face darkens as she nods, “only one other feeling… But this one is a bad one. It only happens when I am scared, or going to be hurt. Or sometimes when I am around a bad person, my soul mark will give me this cold, heavy feeling and tell me that I need to get away.”

Clint felt his stomach bottom out as Mary voiced that admission, and anger coursed hotly through his veins as he wondered how many times she had felt the cold feeling in comparison to the warm one. “Do you count those times?”

Mary’s smile dimmed a little. “I told you that I hate math.”

“Yeah I know, me too.”

Mary bites her lip uncertainly, “Do you think I am a freak?”

Clint recoils, “why would I think that?”

“Because the book I’ve been reading says that there are two types of soul marks. The ones with words and the ones with pictures, but that the picture soul marks are really rare, and that’s the one I have.”

Clint opens his mouth to reassure Mary that having a patterned soul mark didn’t make her weird, but the girl takes a quick breath in and launches back into her tirade with barely a pause.

“But not just that, the book also says that soul marks are usually no bigger than your fist, but mine goes from my butt all the way to my neck. And the book says that it’s not a normal size.”

Mary’s breath is quicker this time, and she’s talking so fast that Clint is struggling to read her lips at the pace they’re moving, only successfully catching every second word.

“And no book says anything about feeling things in their soul marks; except for when soul mates first meet, when they complete their bond, or when one of them dies.”

Mary’s eyes are wide and frightened, and her lungs are heaving in between her rushed words. Clint starts to recognise the signs of a panic attack a moment too late.

“So it’s really weird that I get feelings in my soul mark all the time, and it’s not normal. And I’m not normal. And my neck is super itchy because Jackson slapped my mark through my shirt this morning and now my mark is being stupid and I can’t stop scratching. And he called me a freak, and I’m really scared now because what if he’s right?” Tears stream down Mary’s cheeks, leaving big wet tracks on her face.

Clint doesn’t say anything, just shuffles closer and wraps Mary into a tight hug.

Mary cries for a few minutes, big heartbroken sobs that wrack her whole body. Clint holds on tightly, and rocks Mary as gently as he can manage. He’s not sure what to do past the hugging and rocking though. He thinks back to what his ma would do in these situations and he repeats the words she would soothingly reassure him with.

“It’s okay. Let it out. You’re going to be alright.” Clint feels like a moron, but soon Mary’s crying tapers off and the nine year old extracts herself from Clint’s strangle hold.

Mary hangs her head and hides behind her unevenly cut fringe as the humiliation sets in. Clint is still unsure of the best course of action to take, so he just starts talking.

“You know for all the money the government puts into researching soul bonds and soul marks, they haven’t learnt anything new in the last ten years.” Clint regurgitates the seemingly useless fact he once read on the back of a cereal box.

When Mary doesn’t acknowledge him, Clint continues. “It’s true. There are literally scientists that spend all day trying to figure out why soul marks exist in the first place, but they have no idea how to explain why one person gets a picture mark, one gets a word mark and another gets none at all.” He states conversationally. Mary peers at Clint through her mop of dark hair.

“All these really smart people, who got A’s in school, and probably never failed a math test once in their lives,” Clint teases, gently nudging Mary, “and they have no idea how to explain a bit of black ink.”

Mary’s smile is small, but it’s there. “So I think that it’s silly to read a book about soul marks and believe everything it tells you, because in another ten years from now they might finally figure out the mystery of soul bonds and realise that all the information that they thought was true is actually a load of crap.” Mary is looking at him now, and Clint feels his confidence boost. Leaning across the younger girl, Clint picks up the weighty textbook and snaps it shut with a resounding thump, before roughly shoving it into his bag so Mary couldn’t read it anymore.

“They might change their minds and decide that really big soul marks are normal and little ones are weird, or that it’s stranger to have a written soul mark rather than a picture one. And they might figure out that more people than they think get cool feelings in their soul marks than what they thought, and realise that it is perfectly normal.” Clint reassures Mary with the certainty of someone who had peered into the future.

Mary is smiling now, and Clint takes a special kind of pride in the fact that it exists because he helped put it there.

Mary nods, mostly to herself. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Mary grins as she confirms once more for Clint’s sake. “Okay.”

“Good,” Clint groans dramatically, “because there’s only like five minutes left of lunchtime, and I still haven’t eaten anything.”

Mary snorts.

“I am so hungry that I think my stomach is eating itself,” Clint complains as he lifts his shirt and squeezes the little pudge on his belly. “Oh my god Mary, I’m wasting away to nothing.” He exclaims with mock alarm.

Clint’s brunette companion is cackling at his performance.

“Seriously, have I lost weight since breakfast?” Clint’s makes his eyes go wide with exaggerated fear.

Mary’s face is bright red from laughing so hard, but even so she has enough coherence to throw a peanut butter sandwich at Clint’s head and hit him square between the eyes.

“Stop being a drama-king and eat the stupid sandwich,” she instructs with amused fondness.

Clint doesn’t need to be told twice, as he rips of the wrapper and begins stuffing his face. “So bossy,” he tuts, crumbs falling out of his disgustingly full mouth.

Mary looks revolted, and Clint bursts into his own fit of laughter.

 _Yes_ , Clint thinks to himself, _this is definitely the best part of school_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, and leave a comment. I always love feedback! :D


	4. Hurt Mary, and I'll hurt you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint gets sick of people picking on Mary, so he implements his own version of conflict resolution. What he doesn’t expect is for Mary to be as protective of him, as he is of her.

Jackson Curtis was an asshole.

There really was no other way to describe the orphanage bully. No other word embodied the absolute horror of a human he was.

He picked on everyone, cruelly taunted the younger kids because they were all too small to fight back. The thirteen year old seemed to love watching the children burst into tears as his insults struck home. What he loved even more than that however was leaving the kids cowering after he’d laid into them with his fists and feet.

Clint hated him for all of those reasons, but the biggest reason he hated the kid was because he liked to pick on Mary.

For some reason the little prick was fixated on her. She was his favourite target. And today the red haired horror had broken one of Mary’s fingers.

Clint hadn’t seen it happen. He was running late for the school bus. He’d seen children running excitedly into the front yard as he haphazardly threw together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, but thought nothing of it. It was a common enough occurrence at St. Agnes. But when he’d finally arrived out the front of the Orphanage Mary had been on the ground, clutching her hand and silently crying.

The nuns were fussing over Mary’s injury, and even from a distance Clint could see the way her digit bent the wrong way. It was already swollen and purple.

His heart in his throat, Clint had rushed over. Mary met his gaze with a watery one of her own and she gave him _the look_. The very same look she’d given him when they first met. The one that seemed to say, _‘please leave it alone, he’s not worth it._ ’

Clint looked over towards Jackson and his group of friends to find them laughing and generally having a good time goofing off together. The laughing died down and he caught Jackson’s eyes. The little prick looked between him and Mary, and then had the audacity smirk.

Clint saw red.

He’s not sure how he got to Jackson, but the next thing he’s aware of is his fist connecting squarely with Jackson’s nose. Feeling the crack and spray of blood as the bone broke was one of the most satisfying sensations Clint had felt all day.

Jackson’s face contorted in pain and Clint assumed the other boy yelped before bursting into tears. His already red, pimpled face turned an even brighter shade of crimson as he cradled his broken nose.

The nuns rushed over to separate them. One of the priests dragged him away bodily despite the fact that Clint wasn’t fighting him.

He’d proven his point, to Jackson and anyone else watching. _You hurt Mary, and I’ll hurt you._

 

* * *

 

A behavioural note, a stern scolding and a loss of privileges for two weeks was Clint’s punishment for punching the older boy. But Jackson had lain off Mary for a bit, so it was worth it.

Mary was waiting for him when he got out of Sister Magdalene’s den, looking none too happy. Funnily enough it was the same expression his Ma wore that one time he egged the neighbour’s house.

It was also the same expression Edith Barton had given him when she’d tried to find the mystery smell in his bedroom, only to find a pile of cat shit in his closet where he’d hid a stray tom from his parents for a whole week.

Come to think of it, Clint had seen _that_ expression a lot in his twelve short years on earth.

“Why would you do that?” The nine year old demanded.

“Because he hurt you,” Clint says unapologetically.

Mary huffs, “I don’t need you to defend me, if I wanted to punch him I could have.” She insists.

Clint nods, agreeing with her despite his doubts. “I’m sure you could have, but now you don’t have to.” He grins.

She’s getting frustrated with him, he can tell. But he won’t apologise for his actions.

“You do realise that having a behavioural note in your file that says you’re violent and aggressive means that the parents aren’t going to want to adopt you right?” She’s small and vulnerable, and Clint realises that this is the reason she’s never hit Jackson herself.

“I already have parents Mary, I don’t want to be adopted.” He says seriously.

Mary looks taken aback, like the thought of not wanting to be adopted was unthinkable to her until just now.

“They can put as many behavioural notes in my file as they like, I don’t care.” He means every word.

Mary’s big brown eyes flood with tears, and she launches herself at him. Wrapping skinny arms around his waist and burying her face in his shirt, hugging him.

Clint doesn’t hear her when she whispers, “Thankyou,” on a shaky breath.

Nevertheless, Clint feels ten feet tall. _Definitely worth it_ , he thinks proudly to himself.

 

* * *

 

Clint develops a pattern after that. Someone picks on Mary, and he picks on them right back.

Anabel Wright makes fun of Mary’s test scores in math class, so Clint aims a spit ball at her pretty little head. The visible splat as saliva-soaked paper impacted with the space right between her eyes as she turned around, was incredibly satisfying.

Jackson Curtis trips Mary one afternoon as she gets of the bus, skinning her hands and knees on the unforgiving sidewalk. So that evening at dinner, Clint kicks out his chair the moment the chubby boy goes to sit down. The boy lands hard on his tailbone as he’s sprawled on the floor in front of the whole Orphanage, his plate of food scattered in his lap.

One of Jackson’s friends, a boy named Avery Seymour takes a pair of scissors to Mary’s hair on the bus while she’s not paying attention. So Clint sneaks into his room and shaves off his eyebrows that night while he’s sleeping.

A substitute teacher berates Mary for not paying attention in class. Clint lobs a scrunched up ball of paper at his stupid head, knocking the man’s glasses off his face, and breaking the lens as they hit the floor.

The behavioural notes start stacking up, and people stop picking on Mary, and start targeting him instead. Clint is okay with it. Mary is not.

 

* * *

 

Clint gets cornered at lunchtime by Jackson and his merry band of idiots, as he makes his way to the oval where Mary is waiting for him.

Jackson’s face is healing from his broken nose, but is still bruised yellow around his eyes. And Avery’s eyebrows are still missing, Clint smirks.

“You think this is funny?” Jackson demands hotly.

“Yep,” Clint pops the ‘P’ obnoxiously. He knows what’s coming, but he’s not scared. He’s had enough beatings in his life to know that he’d rather face this band of nitwits rather than his drunken father.

Jackson’s grin is vengeful and arrogant. “Get him.”

The four boys converge on Clint all at once. Angry fists and clumsy kicks rain down on him. Clint fights back as best as he can, but there’s too many of them.

As quickly as it all started, it stops.

Clint is curled into a ball, protecting his head and belly. He doesn’t see the bat as it’s swung into the back of Avery’s knees. And he doesn’t hear the wooden thump as sporting equipment meets flesh, followed quickly by a yowl of pain.

When he hasn’t been hit for a few seconds, he glances up to see a familiar mop of unevenly cut dark hair.

“Who’s next?” Mary is standing over Avery with a baseball bat in hand, a fierce expression on her face.

She won’t be able to take them all on, but thankfully the boys back off immediately. _None of them wants to be the unlucky sod that gets whacked before they can rip the bat out of her hands,_ Clint muses.

“This isn’t over.” The red head promises.

“Oh goodie, my bat needed more blood on it,” Mary quips sarcastically with an all-too-innocent smile on her face.

Jackson gives the two of them an acidic glare as the two other boys pick up their friend from the ground and they saunter away.

Mary drops the façade as soon as the older boys are out of sight, and she rushes over to Clint, her face full of worry.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah I’m fine,” Clint shrugs off her concern.

Mary looks unconvinced.

“I’ve had worse.” He means it to be reassuring, but Mary only looks angrier.

Clint gingerly picks himself up off the ground, and points to the bat as a distraction. “How did you even get that? The sports room is locked.”

“It was. I picked it,” Mary says simply, swinging the bat haphazardly.

Clint thinks she’s joking for all of two seconds. “Of course you did,” he chuckles ruefully, absentmindedly wiping at the blood dripping from his nose.

Mary grins smugly up at him, “what can I say, I got skills.”

“You’ll have to teach me some time.”

She gives him a mysterious smile that’s neither a yes or no.

Clint snorts, and winces when bruised muscles protest.

Mary drops the bat and swings Clint’s arm around her shoulders to help support him like they do in the movies. But she’s so short it barely does anything.

“I thought you said parents don’t like to adopt the aggressive kids.” Clint comments hesitantly.

Mary gives him a searching look, “They don’t,” she admits slowly. “But we’ve got to look out for one another right?”

The moment is heavy, and Clint feels like something has shifted when he says “right,” and agrees with her.

Mary gives him a genuine smile in return. “I’ll teach you.” She declares.

“Teach me what?” Clint feels like he’s missed something, again.

“To pick a lock silly.” She rolls her eyes playfully.

Clint grins.

 

* * *

 

When Mary emerges from Sister Magdalene’s den with a brand new behavioural note in her file and a two week loss of privileges, she’s not sad about it, or disappointed in herself. Instead there’s a feeling in her chest that bears a striking similarity to pride. For the first time in her life something matter's more than being adopted.


	5. Dont get attached, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint’s first foster placement separates him and Mary for the first time since he arrived at St. Agnes Orphanage. Clint struggles with the distance between them, and gets himself sent back so he can see her. Only Mary is on placement of her own, and while she misses Clint desperately, she has a lot more to worry about than her loneliness.

Time passes quickly.

Clint still misses his parents terribly, and the Social Worker still gives him this pitying look every time he asks if the police have found Harold and Edith Barton.

It doesn’t help that the answer is always the same, _“I’m sorry Clinton, but there’s still no sign of them.”_ It never hurts any less to hear.

The fact that his mother and father had abandoned him seemed less like a cruel suggestion, and more like grim reality with every day that passed. Clint hated that all the people who told him that his parent’s didn’t want him might have been right after all.

The only upside to the situation is Mary. The pair of them are inseparable, they do everything together. And she’s his favourite person in the whole world. Clint thinks this must be what it’s like to have a younger sibling, only less annoying. She’d never say so, but Clint is sure that she feels the same way about him.

Clint has been at the Orphanage for two months by the time he gets his first foster placement. It’s a Saturday when the Social Worker tells him to pack his things and that she’ll be by to collect him in two hours.

Clint panics, and instantly sprints towards the gnarled oak tree that he knows Mary likes to sit by sometimes. He knows that she has another hiding spot, but she hasn’t told him about it, _yet_.

She’s absentmindedly carving something into the trunk of the tree with the pocket knife she stole from the grounds-keeper when he gets there. Mary nearly jumps out of her skin when Clint skids to a stop and plonks himself down next her.

“Jesus, you scared the crap out of me!” Mary holds her hand over her chest where her heart is likely hammering away.

If it had been anyone other than him, she’d be dead meat right now. They aren’t supposed to cuss and they aren’t supposed to have sharp things.

“Sorry,” Clint pants. “They gave me a foster placement Mary.” He rushes out in one panicked breath.

Mary sobers immediately, her eyes turning very serious. “When do you leave?”

“The Social Worker is picking me up in two hours.” The panic isn’t abating.

Mary grabs him by the shoulders and looks into his eyes. “Clint, you need to calm down.”

“I don’t want to go Mary. I don’t need a foster home, I just want to stay here with you!”

Mary gives him a small smile. “And I want you to stay here with me too, if we had a choice. But we don’t.”

It makes him feel a little better. “I hate this,” Clint whimpers.

“Me too.” Mary pulls him into a tight hug, Clint relaxes into the embrace knowing it’d probably be one of the last ones he’d get for a while.

Clint takes a deep breath to center himself and straightens up out of the embrace. “Any last minute advice?”

“Don’t draw attention to yourself, and don’t get attached.” Mary says seriously and without hesitation.

The fact that she didn’t even have to think about it broke Clint’s heart a little. “I’m going to miss you.” Clint admits quietly.

A small, sad smile is Mary’s response, followed by a cracked “me too.”

 

* * *

 

The Willoughby house smells like old people, spices and faintly of dirty socks. He immediately doesn’t like it. In Clint’s experience, a house is meant to smell like stale alcohol, mildew and his ma’s burnt cookies.

Mark and Lindsay Willoughby lived in a small two story house, and already had four foster children. They were nice enough.

Lindsay stayed at home with the younger children and worked as a homemaker and mother. She had Italian heritage and liked to cook, so the family ate a lot of pasta and pizza. She was a kind lady with a gentle heart.

Mark was a mechanic, and worked at a local car dealership. He was stern and took no shit from anyone. He had a temper that made Clint instantly wary of him, but no matter how angry Mister Willoughby would get, he never laid a hand on any of the children in the house. Clint considered himself lucky. He knew what damage a grown man’s fists could do.

Clint hated starting a new school, but just as Principal Flemming had promised, the learning plan from his last school was transferred across to his new one. He still had tutoring in the afternoons with someone fluent in ASL. And he was still kept back in 4th and 5th year classes.

He quickly found himself hating school now that Mary wasn’t there to keep him company, no one wanted to be seen with the stupid older kid who talked funny and dressed in clothes too big.

He missed Mary more than he’d missed anyone before, even more than his parents. And despite the fact that this foster family wasn’t so bad, Clint found himself wishing he would be sent back to the Orphanage just so that he could see her.

After three months of living with the Willoughby’s, Clint got tired of waiting for Social Services to come and retrieve him. He needed to see Mary.

He picked a fight with the oldest boy in the house and prayed for the best.

James was sixteen and far stronger than Clint. The two grappled on the second floor landing and by the time Clint realised how close they were to danger, they were already falling down the stairs. By the time the dust settled, Clint had a broken arm and two black eyes, and James had two broken ribs. The staircase banister was destroyed and Lindsay’s great-grandmother’s vase and antique side table were smashed.

Clint had never seen Mark Willoughby so angry and close to physical violence as he was in that moment. Somehow the man had reined himself in and Clint and the older boy avoided the beating they had earned.

Clint and James were sent back to their respective Orphanages the very next day. Clint felt a bit bad about ruining things for James, but ultimately he was happy.

By the time he gets back to St. Agnes, Mary had been shipped off to her own placement and they don’t see each other for a grand total of five months. It’s the longest five months of Clint’s life.

 

* * *

 

Sister Theresa is yelling at Clint to come down from the tree when he sees the pasty white minivan pull up. He’s in the topmost branches of the gnarled oak tree, and quietly enjoying the look of exasperation on the nuns face.

“Clinton Barton, get down here this instant!”

He can read her lips from this distance but all the same he insists, “I can’t hear you,” in an obnoxious sing-song voice.

Sister Theresa’s face contorts with her frustration and Clint cackles from his perch in the tree. He’d been a horror in Mary’s absence and the nuns were nearing their wits end with him.

Sister Magdalene emerges from the Orphanage doorway, probably to see what all the fuss is about, and the aged woman gives Clint a look of silent disapproval.

_He fucking hates that look_.

“Clinton, you have already lost a grand total of five weeks-worth of privileges from all your recent bad behaviour, shall we make it a sixth?” The woman asks calmly.

Clint sighs, contemplating whether pissing off the nuns any longer will be entertainment enough to last another week of no dessert, free time and Saturday social outings.

His decision making is abruptly cut short when he spots Mary climb out of the Orphanage van that had pulled up not too long ago. Clint is down and out of the tree in record time, and sprinting towards the stationary vehicle without a moment’s hesitation.

He barrels into Mary and wraps her in a firm embrace without a moment’s hesitation. She returns the hug slower than Clint would like.

Pulling back from the embrace, he takes stock of his only friend. She gives him a small relieved smile that barely compares to the wide grin on Clint’s own face.

She’s wearing the same clothes he saw her in last. They’re a little tighter than they were five months ago, Clint is happy to notice. Her shaggy mane of hair has gotten longer now too, well past her shoulders and snarled with knots.

Everything is the same, but _different_.

Mary’s eyes though, they’re dark, darker than before. She looks older than her nine young years. Clint frowns, his smile temporarily disappearing under a cloud of concern.

“Mary?”

“Hey Clint, I missed you.” She offers him a small smile, but it’s lifeless compared to the ones she gave him _before_.

_What the hell?_

“I missed you too, I…” He doesn’t know what to say, his attention keeps flicking back to her eyes. “Are you okay?”

The social worker abruptly makes herself known, “I’m sorry young man but Mary-Sue needs to come with me. You can talk to her once she’s settled in.” The woman eyes Mary with a fleeting expression of some emotion Clint can’t quite place, before ushering her into the Orphanage.

Clint stares after their retreating forms long after they disappear from view. When he finally looks away, he notices that Sister Magdalene is standing next to him. He doesn’t know how long she’s been there.

She speaks once he cranes his neck to look at her, “Come along Clinton, there is a behavioural note waiting in my office with your name on it.” She announces with a stern expression.

The nun guides Clint back inside the Orphanage with a firm grip on his shoulder, the incident with the tree apparently not forgotten just because Mary was back.


	6. Dont get attached, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Police arrive at St. Agnes Orphanage, sending Clint into a tailspin of worry. He knows that something happened at Mary’s placement, but he isn’t sure what. Could the police be there for Mary?

Clint stares at the name plaque sitting proudly in the centre of Sister Magdalene’s desk. He traces the gold letters with his eyes over and over again, until the name Magdalene stops being a name and just kind of sounds like a made up word in his head.

An irate hand slams down on the desk in front of him, knocking the name plaque off centre as sister Magdalene attempts to get his attention. She’s been talking for the last twenty minutes, but Clint hasn’t paid attention to a word of it. _One of the benefits of being deaf,_ Clint snorts derisively.

Misinterpreting the sound as disrespect, Sister Magdalene leans over the desk and clasps Clint’s chin between cruel bony fingers, and roughly forces him to meet her flinty eyes. Clint glares defiantly at the woman, but doesn’t fight her grip.

“If you don’t start making some improvements in your behaviour Clinton, your life here can get much worse.” Clint supposes the threat would make other kids fearful, but he simply finds the whole scenario mildly amusing.

He grins impishly, and the nun’s expression darkens. After a long moment of them both glaring at each other, she reluctantly lets go of his jaw even though he’s sure she would rather keep squeezing until his head popped like a pimple.

Clint resists the urge to rub the crescent shaped gouges in his skin, and slumps back in his seat. A perfect picture of indifference.

The Sister takes a deep, calming breath, and then another. Her face is more relaxed when she speaks again. “Please stop making things so difficult for yourself Clinton. We aren’t the bad guys here.”

Clint looks out the window to avoid the confusing rush of feelings in his chest. Which is when he notices the Police cruiser pulling up outside the Orphanage and the two officers stepping out.

“Why are the police here?” he asks with a curious furrow of his brow. Surely he hadn’t angered the nuns enough to warrant police involvement. Not _yet_ at least.

Sister Magdalene’s expression goes from relaxed to strained in a split second. “There was an incident at one of the children’s foster placements. They’re just here to make some inquiries.”

Alarm bells go off in his head, and Clint feels his stomach roll as his brain quickly jumps to conclusions. “Are they here for Mary?” He can’t tear his gaze away from the nun now, but for some reason she won’t make eye contact. The paperwork in front of her suddenly becoming _very important_ , suspiciously so. “Did something happen to her?”

The nun says nothing.

Clint feels his already temperamental anger spur up. “Answer me!” He yells.

“You can show yourself out now Clinton.” The words are phrased as a suggestion, but the stony set of the nun’s face make it clear that it was actually a demand.

Frustration and the beginnings of panic, bubble in Clint’s chest. He stands abruptly, knocking over the heavy chair and storms out of the room, making sure to slam the door behind him as he leaves.

Taking off in a sprint he goes looking for Mary, cursing the _stupid fucking nuns_ all the way.

 

* * *

 

Mary stares blankly out of the spider-crusted window in her spot, trying very hard not to think at all.

She focused on the over-sized and under-used bottle of bleach squeezing against her thigh, reminding her of the fact that she fit in the gap between the cleaning supplies and the grimy window perfectly just a few months ago. Everything felt _different_ since the placement with the Wilkins family. Mary hated it.

She thinks she hears her name being yelled, but ignores it in favour of picking at her nails. The social worker had said the police would want to talk to her about what happened.

Mary didn’t know if she wanted to say anything. She didn’t want to think about what she saw and she didn’t want to get into any trouble. After all the adults never took her side, so what would be the point?

She hears her name again, clearer this time. It sounds like Clint. He’s close.

Looking out the window, she sees her best friend running around the yard, yelling her name. He’s just come from her quiet spot by the gnarled oak tree. He looks upset; his face red and scrunched up with frustration.

Despite all the ugly emotions in her chest, Mary takes pity on him. She had missed him terribly while he was gone. Missed him the way she’d never missed anyone before.

After a moment of hesitation, she climbs down from the shelf and quietly leaves the storage cupboard, careful to lock it behind her. She darts out of the restricted hall, dodges Sister Theresa and races down the stairs on nimble feet.

Clint sees her as soon as she comes into view, and his face relaxes the smallest bit. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He sounds exasperated, but Mary doesn’t let that deter her.

“I know, come on.” Mary grabs his hand and drags him along behind her.

Clint protests all of a second before he stops resisting and follows, gripping her smaller hand tightly in his own and lumbering after her on much longer legs.

Mary leads him back the way she just came, back to her secret hiding spot. She picks the lock with her bobby pin and they both sneak inside the cramped space. The storage closet feels much smaller with Clint in there. But Mary finds she doesn’t mind the claustrophobia as much as she thought she might.

Clint looks around, impressed. “This is your hiding spot?”

Mary turns around from her position half-way up the shelf to glance at him quizzically. “No one uses this room; in fact I’m pretty sure everyone has forgotten it even exists.”

“It’s cosy,” Clint compliments with a teasing grin.

Mary grunts as she squeezes into her spot next to the bleach. “That’s just another way of saying its teeny tiny right?” She rolls her eyes from her perch well above Clint’s head.

Clint jokes, “well yeah, but _you’re_ teeny tiny so it’s perfect for you.”

“I’m not that small!” Mary protests.

Clint just smirks in response, obviously doubtful of Mary’s bold statement.

Mary pokes her tongue out at him, Clint returns the childish gesture.

“I’m glad you finally showed me.” Clint says quietly as he stands on his tippy-toes to see out the dirty window.

They sit there in companionable silence for a little while. Clint looking down on the little children running around in donated, ill-fitting clothes two stories below them and Mary watching Clint take it all in.

“I really missed you.” Clint doesn’t look at Mary when he says it, but his head darts to the side so he can read her lips quicker than she’s ever seen.

“I missed you too dummy.”

“Really?” Clint’s blue eyes search Mary’s darker ones intently, like he’s looking for the lie.

“Of course I did… You’re-” Mary finds herself struggling to finish her sentence. Suddenly it’s her turn to be unable to make eye contact. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” She quietly admits after a long hesitation.

When Mary finally looks up again Clint is beaming, his blue eyes alight with happiness. “Me too.”

Mary’s expression mirror’s Clint’s, she’s sure of it.

“So why did you get sent back?” Mary asks after a moment.

Clint snorts, “I got into a fight with an older boy. Guess the parents didn’t take too kindly to all their stuff getting smashed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Mary feels disappointment well up for her friend, her _best friend_.

“Oh don’t be, I did it on purpose.” It’s phrased as a casual statement, like it doesn’t matter.

Mary is dumbfounded. “What?”

“I didn’t want to be there anymore. So I made sure they sent me back.” He says it so simply, Mary doesn’t know what to say in response.

It takes her a minute to put her annoyance into words. “You got sent back on purpose?” Her voice rises in pitch, “why would you do that?” Mary has a terrible thought, _what if something bad happened at his placement too?_

“I told you, I missed you.”

Mary deflates all at once, she rubs her face with a weird mixture of residual frustration and admiration, before chortling. “That was really silly, I was already on my own placement.” Mary struggles to keep the atmosphere light, her mind keeps going back to the Wilkins.

Clint snorts, “yeah well how was I supposed to know that?” He shrugs in a _‘what can you do’_ gesture.

The both dissolve into laughter.

“What happened at your foster placement?” Clint says the words gently, but Mary feels them like a punch to the gut. “Please tell me what happened. The police are here, and I don’t know for sure but I’m worried that they’re here for you.”

Mary squeezes her eyes shut when she feels angry tears begin to well without her permission. She can hear Clint shifting uncomfortably, trying to figure out how best to handle the situation most likely.

“They are here for me.” She whispers into her hands.

A moment later the shelf jiggles and the large tub of bleach is being pulled off the shelf, followed by a laboured grunt from Clint as he deposits the weight on the concrete floor. He’s puffed by the time he scrambles up the shelf and seats himself right next to Mary.

He barely fits he’s so big, but he hunches his shoulders and bends his neck so his head doesn’t hit the roof.

He pulls Mary into a firm embrace, and just holds her. Clint is barely keeping himself still, his feet are knocking together and his fingers knotted together. But Mary appreciates the small gesture of comfort all the same.

Mary doesn’t doubt that he has a million questions flying around in that head of his.

He squirms once more before he can’t contain his curiosity any longer. “Are the police here because you did something?”

Mary feels tears prick at her eyes again. “No, but I should have.”

“What are you talking about Mary?” Clint grips Mary’s shoulders and draws her close so he can look at her face.

His face is lined with worry.

“The police are here because my foster sister Laurel stabbed the foster dad Vince two nights ago with a kitchen knife.” Mary admits with an agitated growl.

Clint’s eyes widen and his mouth pops open in shock. He obviously wasn’t expecting anything like that. It takes a moment for him to recover, but when he does his face looks far more serious. “Did he deserve it?”

“Yes.” Mary answers without a moment of hesitation.

Clint nods, seeming to accept Mary’s assertion as truth simply because it was her saying it. “Okay.”

Mary wipes tears away ferociously, angry at herself for their mere existence.

Clint frowns, confused. “Why are you sad if he deserved it?”

“I’m not sad, I’m angry.” Mary spits the words out like poison, her face scrunched in disgust.

“Why?”

Mary feels the tears burn hot behind her eyes. “Because I should have known that he was hurting her.” Sniffling Mary looks up at Clint and begins to explain what happened.

“Late one night about a week ago, I woke up and saw Vince leaving our room, he was stumbling a bit and his shirt was unbuttoned. When he was gone I heard Laurel crying in her bed. I didn’t know what was going on; I just thought she’d gotten into trouble about sneaking out or something. So I went back to sleep.”

“Then two nights ago I wake up again, only this time to Vince screaming in pain. I jumped out of bed and turned the light on, and he was lying on the floor in a puddle of blood that just kept getting bigger. There was just so much blood…” Mary trails off, her face going white as a sheet as she recalled the metallic scent of iron all through the room.

“Hey Mary, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Clint gently clasps Mary’s forearms, drawing her away from the memory and back to the present.

“He didn’t have any pants on, and his private parts were all hanging out.” Mary cringes in disgust. Clint turns a little pink around the ears at that part. “Laurel was huddled on the bed holding a bloody knife, crying and shaking. She looked so scared Clint...” Mary trails off.

Clint is quiet for a long time, gently rubbing Mary’s arm while he processes. “Did he die? The dad?”

“No, but I think he might have deserved to.” Mary bites her lip. “Does that make me a bad person?”

“No way,” Clint declares. He says it with so much conviction, that Mary believes him. “I think that we should go see the police officers now though, they’re probably still looking for you.” Clint suggests gently.

Mary stiffens, “no I don’t want to.”

“Hey it’s okay, you don’t have to be scared. I can come with you.”

Mary agrees by nodding rapidly, and buries herself back into Clint’s side. He holds her tightly. “Do you think I will be in trouble with the police because I didn’t realise he was hurting Laurel sooner?” Mary asks with brimming uncertainty.

“No of course not Mary, you’re a kid. There’s no way that you could have known what was happening to Laurel.”

With a small voice Mary asks, “you sure?”

“Absolutely. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

“Can we stay here a little longer? I don’t want to go yet.”

Clint smiles down at Mary, “Of course we can, it’s your hiding spot after all. You make the rules.”

Mary grins.

 

* * *

 

Clint keeps his promise.


	7. This means you're my brother now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint struggles with the time of year, the knowledge of his abandonment beginning to sink in heavily. He’s angry and isn’t talking. Advice comes from a strange source and stranger yet is the fact that the angry twelve year old actually listens this time.

Life goes back to normal after the Wilkins family incident, well Clint and Mary’s version of normal at least.

They go to school, they try to learn whatever the teacher has deemed important that week. They eat lunch in _their_ spot on the oval. They studiously avoid Jackson and his group of dipshit friends. And they keep to themselves as much as they can.

It doesn’t always work, but they make the best of their situation.

Time passes.

Soon enough the weather begins to shift as the year draws to a close. The wind gets cold and biting, rain stops falling and snow starts. The nearby lake freezes solid and the footpaths and roads get dangerously slippery.

Winter arrives.

And so too does the annual influx of do-gooders. Local charity’s stop by, the volunteer’s heavy laden with donated winter-wear, blankets, food and pitying glances as they eye the children like Mary whose nose runs and eyes water with an early season cold.

Mary is used to the drill, Clint is not. He gets annoyed when an elderly volunteer comes up to him and gently informs him “I’m sure you will find a loving family one day soon.”

Clint takes an agitated step forward. Mary grabs Clint by the hand and squeezes hard to keep him in place while the old man leaves with a content smile on his face.

Clint glances down at Mary and shoots her a dirty look before he storms out of the slightly warmer Orphanage in his newly donated grey parka that smells like someone’s dusty attic.

Clint’s mood only seems to sour from there.

Last week Clint and Avery Seymour got into a fight so bad that when Father McKinley stepped in to intervene, Clint had socked him hard in the jaw. When Mary had asked Clint about what had started it, the boy had morosely muttered something about “Avery talking shit,” and stomped away.

Mary didn’t quite know what to make of it. Normally she would just ask him what his problem was, but he’d been super closed off lately, never wanting to talk about anything serious. Mary supposed this counted as serious. Whatever it was…

 

* * *

 

It was the last day of school before Christmas holidays, all the students were filled with varying degrees of excitement for plans with their families, tables brimming with food and presents imagined in only their wildest dreams.

Well most of the students that is. Almost all of the Orphanage children were an exception to the rule.

Clint especially was dreading the holiday. It would be his first Christmas without his family. And his heart ached like it had been ripped from his chest.

Clint waited for the bus after a long and unfulfilling last day of school, he couldn’t wait to go back to the Orphanage and hang out with Mary in her secret hiding spot.

Since the weather had turned, it was nearly too cold to hang out anywhere else without being disturbed by other kids or the nuns.

Clint sighed as impatience gnawed at him, his breath frosting in the air. He _hated_ school and he _hated_ the cold. He was just glad one of them was ending for a while.

His disdain for the low temperature was abruptly pushed aside when he was roughly shoved from behind. Clint feels his anger flare up as he whirls around to find none other than Jackson Curtis standing behind him. The red headed boy wore a sneer as ugly as his attitude.

Clint barely suppresses the knee-jerk urge to re-break his nose.

“Heard you gave my boy Avery a beat down the other day Barton.” Jackson cracks his knuckles menacingly, and slowly stalks closer.

Clint assumes Jackson is trying to look tough, but in this weather he simply looks like he’s an old man rubbing out his aching, arthritis-fused joints. Clint smirks, Jackson glares. _Here we go_ , Clint thinks to himself with an element of anticipation.

“You know you’re gunna have to answer for that.”

Clint snorts despite himself. “ _Your boy_ ,” he says mockingly, “deserved every inch of that beating.”

Jackson nods his head thoughtfully, like he was really considering Clint’s side of things. “That’s right, I heard he made a crack about your deadbeat parents.”

Clint’s expression turns stony, and Jackson’s taunting grin widens in response. “Unless you want to end up like your friend I suggest you walk away, I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”

“What’s the matter Barton, don’t like it when people talk about your mommy and daddy?” Jackson cocks his carrot-top to the side, and raises an eyebrow in challenge.

Clint’s jaw ticks, and he clenches his hands into tight fists. _One more word out of your pimpled face and I’m going to smash it into pulp_ , Clint silently promises.

“I heard that they hated you so much that they dropped you off at a church, and never looked back.” Jackson snickers, “they must have been really fucking dumb if it took them twelve years to figure out that you weren’t worth keep-“

Jackson doesn’t get a chance to finish his taunt because Clint’s fist is flying into Jackson’s face with every ounce of fury his twelve year old self can muster.

The older boy’s head snaps back under the force of the blow, and his whole body is tipped off balance. He’s quick to recover though and when he picks himself up again he grins maliciously through bloody teeth and a split lip. “You’re gunna regret that.”

“Fucking bring it you piece of shit,” Clint roars, blinded by rage he runs at the smug little toad.

Jackson takes a swing, but he goes too wide and misses by a long shot. Clint tackles the older boy into the hard-packed snow and begins laying into him. He punches him in the face once, twice, three times.

Jackson flails, trying desperately to dislodge Clint, but he’s dug in like a tick and won’t be moved.

Clint doesn’t notice the tight ring of frenzied students that has formed around them screaming, “fight! Fight! Fight!” None of it even registers in Clint’s mind. There’s only his hate, the gnawing feeling of abandonment in his chest and his fist.

Deep down Clint knew that Jackson was right, and he hated him for it.

Clint isn’t sure how it happens but one second he’s on top of Jackson, and the next he’s on his ass, a few metres away. His shirt stretched tight against his throat and snow melting uncomfortably into his pants. Someone must have thrown him by the back of his shirt.

Clint struggles back to his feet and is about to lunge into the fight again when suddenly Mary is in front of him, pushing him back.

“Enough!” She yells, her face going red with the effort of holding him back and yelling loud enough to be heard over the voices of those egging on the boys.

Clint abruptly stops, the fight leaving him in a rush. The ring of students quit their chanting. Everyone is silent, eager to see what happens next.

Jackson takes advantage of the distraction and unsteadily picks himself up off the cold ground and tries to take a cheap shot while Mary’s back is turned and Clint is side-tracked.

He shoves Clint forcefully, knocking Mary in the process. Clint stumbles back, but before he has a chance to get angry again Mary is shoving Jackson herself. Hard enough to knock him back down.

“Stay. Down.” Mary states lowly. The fire in her eyes making it very clear that there would be hell to pay if he didn’t follow her instruction.

Jackson stares at Mary in shock, probably wondering how the hell a little girl managed to summon enough strength to push him over.

Chest heaving as he comes back to himself, Clint realises the mess he’s gotten himself into. He frantically looks around for any sign of teachers. He can’t see any.

Mary turns around, grabs Clint by the arm and roughly drags him away. “Let’s go.”

Clint doesn’t argue.

The duo board the bus without much fanfare, Clint follows Mary as she picks a seat for them at the back of the bus.

Jackson Curtis sits far away from them but glares every time he looks in their direction, his bruised and bloody face contorting uncomfortably.

Clint only feels slightly guilty for losing control and beating the kids face to a bloody mess. He’s pretty sure he re-broke Jackson nose.

Clint and Mary sit in silence all the way back to the orphanage, Clint can tell that she’s upset with him.

Father McKinley is waiting for Clint the moment the bus stops. Clint steps off the yellow tin can reluctantly, Mary following close behind. Cautiously he eyes Father McKinley’s bruised jaw and the middle-aged man’s placid expression.

“Clint I’d like to have a chat, will you come with me?” The father holds an arm out to guide Clint in the direction of the Chapel attached to the Orphanage.

Mary steps forward protectively, “is he in trouble?” She crosses her skinny arms in front of her chest and stares defiantly at the priest.

Father McKinley smiles warmly and bends down to Mary’s level, “no he isn’t. I just want to have a conversation with him. Is that alright?”

Mary’s expression wavers, she looks up at Clint for guidance, unsure of what he wants her to do.

Clint puts a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. “It’s alright Mary, I’ll go.”

The father smiles again, pleased. He turns and walks a few paces ahead.

Mary abruptly pulls him down by the collar of his shirt. Clint chokes as the shirt cuts into the tender skin of his neck for the second time that day. Not for the first time he marvels at the unexpected strength hidden in his best friends tiny frame.

“Ow,” he complains half-heartedly.

“You punch him again if he tries something.” Mary whispers close to his face so he can read her lips. Wilkins house had been an education in both adults and trust, in that you can _never_ trust adults. And Mary especially had learned that lesson well.

Clint nods gravely.

Appeased, Mary lets go of his collar and allows him to follow after Father McKinley.

Clint follows a few paces behind the Father as they enter the Chapel. He sits in one of the many empty pews and taps the seat next to him when Clint hesitates to sit down.

Stubbornly, Clint remains standing. “Why am I here?”

Father McKinley smiles despite the seriousness of his next words, “Clint I’m worried about you.”

Clint snorts, “yeah right.” He crosses him arms tight over his chest.

The father’s smile broadens, becomes knowing. “You may not know it from looking at me Clint, but I was a lot like you at your age.”

The ebony haired boy says nothing, simply stares at the man dubiously.

“It’s true,” he continues. “There were plenty of days when I would come back to the Orphanage after a long day of school, and my knuckles would look a lot like yours.” The Father takes a serene glance at Clint’s hands.

Clint looks down to survey the damage, his knuckles are bruised and swollen and the skin has broken in a few places. Turned out Jackson has a hard head.

“You grew up in an Orphanage?” Clint asks, surprised.

“Not any Orphanage, _this_ Orphanage.” The Father gestures casually around them.

“Why the hell would you come back? This place is a shithole.” Clint frowns.

“It’s not that bad,” Father McKinley decides with a shrug. “I had a roof over my head, food in my belly, clothes on my back. It was a lot better than what I had growing up on the streets with my mother.”

“What happened to her?” Clint asks quietly. After all every child that grew up in an Orphanage had been left behind by their parents in some way, all that differed was whether they were still alive or not. Death or… abandonment. Clint swallows thickly.

“My mother died of a drug overdose. She was addicted to heroin for most of her life.”

“That sucks,” Clint shifts uncomfortably on his feet, before gingerly sitting down on the edge of the pew.

Father McKinley chuckles, “yes it does. But I like to think she’s in a better place now.”

“Heaven?” Clint asks unimpressed. He wasn’t interested in listening to the Father if it was going to turn into a sermon. God could lick a hot turd as far as he was concerned.

“Not necessarily.”

Clint frowns, confused. “But you’re a priest, aren’t you supposed to say that she’s in heaven?”

“As a priest yes,” the Father answers slowly, “but as a son I know that my mother lived a sad, brutal existence, and that even death would be better than what she had when she was alive.”

“So you’re glad that she died?” Clint asks, frustrated. How could anyone _want_ their mum to die?

“Not glad, never glad Clint.” The father denies vehemently, sadness making his eyes shiny. “She was my mum and I loved her more than anyone. But I know that death was a kindness for her.”

Clint stares at the priest, trying to comprehend what he was being told. After a while he asks, “why are you telling me this?”

“I am telling you this because I see myself in you. I see an angry boy trying to understand how he is in this place.” The priest looks up at the stained glass above the alter. “I see a boy trying to understand why his parents left him behind.”

Clint’s face turns red and his bruised fists shake. “Don’t talk about my parents.”

Cautiously the Father hedges, “the only reason I bring up your parents is because I can see you struggling, and I doubt I am the only one.” He makes a point of looking at Clint’s busted knuckles to emphasise his argument. “But unlike whoever saw the business end of your fists, I want to help.”

Clint’s glare darkens considerably. “I said don’t talk about my parents, I mean it priest.”

Father McKinley has the good sense to raise his palms in a placating gesture and back off. “Okay Clint I won’t.”

The red begins to dissipate from Clint’s vision, and he calms.

“There’s just one more thing I’d like to say if I may?”

Clint stares, his entire body tightly strung and on guard, but he doesn’t deny the father his chance to speak.

The man offers a small, weak smile. “I know that you feel quite alone here, but I can guarantee that just because your blood family chose not to be part of your life anymore, does not mean that you can’t find a _chosen_ family.”

Clint stares quizzically.

“That girl, Mary was it?”

Clint nods once, succinct.

“She protects you like family, as I’m sure you do for her.”

“Of course, she’s _special_.” Clint says simply, even though the word special feels woefully inaccurate. He didn’t quite know how to describe how he felt towards Mary. Protective, affectionate, frustrated, loyal. The only other person he’d ever felt similarly towards was his mother Edith.

The father nods understandingly, “That bond is special. I had one similar when I was child here. Another boy, we were like brothers.”

Clint thinks about it for a moment. Mary, _my sister_. It felt right.

Clint beams at Father McKinley before launching off his chair and sprinting out the door.

“Where are you going?” The father calls out.

Clint doesn’t hear him but he calls out over his shoulder anyway without slowing down, “I’ve got to go find Mary.”

He doesn’t see it, but Father McKinley relaxes back into the uncomfortable pew, nostalgia and pride making him grin.

 

* * *

 

Mary waits patiently on the cold steps outside the chapel, for Father McKinley to finish his _chat_ with Clint.

The priest was fairly new to the Orphanage, only having arrived in the past year. Mary at least knew that the nuns weren’t overly fond of him, especially the older ones. None of the children knew why of course. That would require the nuns to actually _speak_ to them, rather than make demands and scold them when they behaved badly.

Mary considered what the priest might want with Clint. A plethora of bad, but ultimately unlikely scenario’s played out in her head. Only one of them seemed plausible. The father was upset with Clint for accidentally punching him in the jaw during his fight with Avery a while ago. Mary worries her lip, feeling uncertain.

It was at that moment that Clint chose to come barrelling out of the Chapel, and tripped over Mary. Sending them both careening into the fresh snow.

“Ow,” Clint complains, his face covered in snow.

Mary laughs despite the fact that she now has bruises she didn’t before. “Ever heard of walking?”

Clint makes an exaggerated groan, “ever heard of not sitting in the doorway?”

“I was worried,” Mary shrugs as she dusts what little of the snow that hasn’t already soaked into her clothing, and seats herself back down on the steps.

“You didn’t need to be, I can look after myself.” Clint grins as he parrots the exact words Mary had said to him the first time he punched Jackson for hurting her.

Mary snorts, “turd.”

Clint grins like it was compliment, and takes a bow.

Shaking her head with amusement she asks, “What did Father McKinley want anyway?”

Clint furrows his brow. “Weirdly, I actually think he was trying to help me?” Clint sounds as unsure as he feels.

“With what?”

“Um,” Clint looks a little sheepish, “my anger, I think.”

Mary nods, appearing thoughtful. “Well I’d say you need some help with that,” she admits quietly.

“Sorry.” Clint gives Mary a strained smile and scratches the back of his neck self-consciously. “Christmas is just around the corner and…”

“It’s your first one without your mum and dad.” Mary finishes his sentence, understanding dawning.

Clint nods.

“So that’s why you’ve been acting strangely?” Mary looks up at him, insecurity swimming in dark pools of brown.

He nods again.

“Why didn’t you just tell me? I’ve been asking what’s wrong for weeks,” it’s not an accusation, just an innocent statement of fact.

Clint hesitates to answer, “I didn’t know if you would understand…”

Mary tenses. _Does he think I don’t know what having a family was like just because I was left at the Orphanage as a baby?_ “Of course I do.” She defends hotly.

Clint walks slowly towards her, hands out. “Okay, I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to ask in case it upset you,” he rambles.

“I do know what it’s like to have a family,” She glares. “The Brody’s loved me, for a little while.” Mary admits, and then she deflates all at once like a popped balloon. She realises how ridiculous that sounds. _How could a few months with the Brody’s ever compare to twelve years with your real parents?_

Staring resolutely, Clint declares, “Mary you will always have a family, because you will always have me.”

Mary looks up at him, confused but hopeful. The two forming a lump of emotion in her throat. “What?”

“Father McKinley said that just because our blood families decided not to be part of our lives, doesn’t mean that we can’t have a _chosen_ family.” Clint stares at Mary intently. “I choose you, you’re my best friend, my _sister_.”

Mary’s gingerly reaches for the back of her neck as warmth and reassuring comfort spread out from her soul mark, and spreads around her body like a hug. “Clint my mark is doing the warm feeling again,” she announces quietly, a little shell-shocked.

“Really?” He’s staring, wide eyed and awed.

She nods frantically.

“That’s good right? You said that was good?” He clarifies.

Mary feels something strange prickling along her skin, and for some reason she’s absolutely certain when she says, “it means you’re my brother now.”

Clint beams, Mary joins him.

“You know what else this means?” Mary has an impish grin on her face, and mischief in her eyes. “It means that you should totally share your dessert with your sister tonight, and every night.”

Clint guffaws, “if that’s the case, I take it back,” he jokes.

“Turd,” Mary slaps his arm playfully. “No take backs.”

“Ow,” Clint complains half-heartedly, “you are a very violent child.”

Mary scoffs, “tell that to your messed up fists.”

“Touché,” Clint snorts.

“What does that word mean?” Mary looks at Clint, confused.

The little shit that he is, Clint ruffles Mary’s hair before announcing, “I’ll tell you when you’re older little sister,” teasing smirk firmly in place.

“Don’t make me smack you again,” Mary warns him, doing a better job of disguising her grin than Clint ever had.

Clint launches off the steps and takes off into a sprint, “you’ll have to catch me first!”

“Turd!”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my lovelies!
> 
> So as the Summary has said, this story is the prequel to Big Brother. That doesn't necessarily mean that you need to read this story before Big Brother, but it will fill in some blanks.
> 
> As always, I appreciate people taking the time to comment and provide feedback. I wont lie, it's a massive boost of confidence and always makes my day to hear from readers.
> 
> Btw if anyone is interested, I am looking for a beta for this series. Let me know in the comments if you wanna try your hand at it :D
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \- Love Loz


End file.
